Grave Gate Sample

Many years ago I began work on a sword and sorcery novel I entitled Grave Gate. Unfortunately, other projects moved it aside and I suspect it will be years, if ever, when I return to the world I created. Allow me to share the opening segment of the first chapter with you.

Grave Gate

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The sudden outburst of laughter from a group of very drunk men at a far table jarred Brant’s concentration. He looked up from his game of Maladar to take a quick glance around The Green Man Pub. When one lives their life by the sword, the cost is never ending vigilance unless one enjoys the feel of cold steel between one's ribs. Satisfied that the laughing men, lost in their cups, were no threat, he returned his attention to the game table.

“Are you going to move or concede the game?”

Brant ignored his opponent, his concentration intent on the arrangement before him. Long ago, the lines and tiny squares of a Maladar board had been carved into the stained wood of the table and the colored stones that made up the playing pieces lay scattered about. On the playing field itself, the pieces lay in a very specific and precise order.

He chewed his lower lip in thought. Four copper ducats were riding on the outcome of this little entertainment and his work to construct a pattern of Four Horsemen In The Field was being stymied by his opponent's attempt to construct Dragon In Repose.

In his mind he suddenly saw the possibility of a new pattern. With a sudden grin, he placed a yellow stone on the table, the stones about it affected by its presence creating a ripple effect of colors cascading across the table top.

“Very nice,” his playing opponent said. “Forest Glade in Autumn. I have not seen that pattern in a long time. “However ...” A big, broad hand swept over the table to place a green stone in an empty hole. Again, colors flowed across the board. “Dragon In Repose, sir. I believe the wager was four ducats?”

Brant laughed and shook his head at his own defeat. “Melek, I have no idea how you did that.”

Brant's companion smiled, a rare event, and leaned back in his seat. “The way of a true warrior is to see many moves ahead and be aware of all possible moves by his opponent. I can't talk my way out of troubles like you do.”

Feigning a nonchalance that he did not feel—losing always stung his pride—Brant reached for the small leather pouch he kept in his shirt and took out four coppers.

“Better idea,” his companion said, waving Brant’s proffered hand away. “Buy the next round.”

Brant motioned for a serving girl. “You're too good a winner.”

Melek shrugged. “Only because we're playing Maladar instead of playing at swords.”

“Melek, you’ll never change.”

“Somebody has to keep us alive.”

Brant nodded at one of the serving girls and pointed to their almost empty mugs. After receiving a quick nod in response, Brant looked over at his friend who was busy keeping an eye on the crowd. “You’re also one of the grimmest devils I know.”

Melek shrugged. “I’m still alive.”

Though alert to the quiet activity around them, they were relaxed in each other’s company as only old friends can be.

The opening of the front door suddenly caught their attention and a figure—the hood pulled way down over the face—entered the pub.

“It’s a woman,” Brant said.

Melek nodded his agreement. “The movement gives her away. She’s too graceful. If she’s trying to hide her identity, she should slouch more.”

The barkeep looked up from his attempt to swab the top of the bar in order his guest. He immediately turned visibly pale.

“And she’s rather special,” Melek added, watching the barkeep’s reaction.

The barkeep listened as the figure spoke, his eyes wide with fear, then quickly pointed to where Brant and Melek sat.

“Business or trouble?” Brant asked his companion as the figure turned to look at them.

“Both,” Melek replied.

The figure made its way through the maze of tables, a few patrons looking up with curiosity and then turning back to their personal business. One man, sitting in a position that he could see under the figure’s hood as it passed, made a sign for protection from evil and quickly got up to leave.

“I’m starting to think more trouble than business,” Melek added as his hand crept toward the pommel of his short sword.

The visitor stopped in front of them. Two graceful hands appeared from the sleeves of the voluminous robe and swept the hood away from the face.

The two men stared in surprise.

The hair was long and carmine, the color of a fox’s pelt, framing a face of such absolute perfection the two men wondered if what stood before them was truly real or the craft of an expert sculptor. Overly large violet-colored eyes studied them carefully.

Respectfully, the two men stood and nodded. The pub had become as quiet as a grave. Some of the patrons closer to their table began making their way either to tables further away or even towards the door.

“My lady,” Brant said. “We are honored to have one of the Fox People grace our table. How may we serve you?”

Brant hated the fawning tone he used, but life had just taken an unpleasant turn. Rumor said you did not act rudely to one of the Foxes unless you wanted to die.

Or worse.

“I am Arul of the Serinthels, what you call…” she paused for a moment as if the phrase created a foul taste on her lips, “the Fox People.” With a graceful move, she pulled out a chair and seated herself, motioning for the two to join her. “I am in need of assistance.”

“Would you like food or drink?” Brant asked as he took his seat.

“Yes,” their visitor replied. “My journey has been hard.”

Brant motioned for the serving girl who turned visibly pale at the thought of approaching the strange creature, but the lure of copper coins Brant tossed in his hand overrode her reluctance.

Melek swept the Maladar stones into a leather pouch, clearing the table.

“Please bring the lady bread and whatever fresh greens you may have,” Brant ordered.

“Of course, good sirs,” the serving girl said, “and may the lady be wanting some nice, hot …”

Brant’s hand shot up for silence. “Bread. Fresh greens. Water, if you cannot find wine that isn’t already vinegar. That will be all.”

To her credit, the girl had enough intelligence to keep her mouth shut and scurried away to fill the order. Legend stated that one does not offer Serinthels meat and they take great offense at slights real or imagined. It is also said they have long, long memories.

Brant and Melek nursed their drinks waiting for their guest to speak.

“I come from Brathe,” she said after a few moments of silence, her musical voice low and sweet. “It is one of the clan-towns of the Serinthels. Two full moons ago we received word that one of our clan-towns fell to an unseen enemy. Shadows from the night sky descended on the town covering it completely. Since then, the shadows have swallowed up Northross, Celandine, and others.”

Melek raised two fingers from where they rested on the weathered table top. “Are there survivors?" he asked. "How were they attacked? Can you describe the enemy?”

The Fox woman paused for a moment, a flash of irritation sweeping over her perfect face at the interruption. “Few survived and those were the ones fortunate enough to be outside the walls when the towns were attacked. The shadow I speak of is not poetic language. It is a true shadow. When the shadow lifts, the city is littered with the dead.” The voice faltered. “The dead are without wounds. The appearance is that they died where they stood, unaware of the fate that fell on them. Large, unblinking violet eyes clouded over with memory. “Finally, we received an emissary from our enemy. In the terms of surrender, a Serenthelian delegation was ordered to appear before an ancient barrow for a parley. I stood before its entrance just three days ago.”

She waited in silence as the serving girl brought a wooden trencher covered with small hard, black bread rolls, some limp turnip greens, and a mug filled with water.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the girl said, anxiety making her voice break, “this is all we got.” With trembling fingers, the serving girl sat the board in front of the fox woman and immediately turned and fled.

Arul picked at the greens, sniffed her contempt, and then took up a roll and broke it in half. Steam came from the center, and Brant and Melek heard their guest sigh with contentment. They helped themselves to their mugs as Arul broke her fast.

“You said you had been to this barrow?” Brant asked.

“Not alone,” Arul said between delicate bites. “My companions still remain there.”

“Waiting for you?” Melek asked.

“Yes,” Arul nodded. “That is what the dead do best.”

Brant and Melek exchanged glances.

“And you want our help…how?” Brant asked.

“Word of the Free Academy has even reached the ears of the Serinthels. I knew you were homed here in Rollas, and when I asked the barkeep for the leaders he pointed at you.”

She paused waiting for an answer.

“My lady,” Brant said, “we are not an army. The Free Academy only has four members. The work we are hired out for is more…subtle.”

“Yes,” Arul nodded in agreement. “When I and my companions approached the barrow, we did so in pomp befitting Serinthels. We paid greatly for our lack of discretion. Now, I need to return with those who understand subtlety.”

Melek rolled his shoulders from the growing tension, the popping of joints sounding like river ice snapping during a quick thaw. “Before we commit to anything, does this barrow have a name in our language?”

“In our language, we call it Ororc. In your language…” She paused to think. “Yes, I believe it is called Grave Gate.”

Brand laughed in spite of himself, making already-interested eyes and ears around the tavern even more curious as to why a Serinthel sullied itself by walking in the world of humanity. “Grave Gate? My lady, even if it is possible, you don’t have the ducats we would demand for such an undertaking.”

The fox woman reached into her tunic and pulled out a small stone the size of an egg and placed it on the table. “Would this cover the cost?”

Brant and Melek stared at the stone, a perfect ruby the likes of which no man had ever seen. Its heart seemed to beat with scarlet fire even in the dim light of the pub.

“And back to the original question,” Brant said, his own fiery heart in his throat, “what exactly would you have us do for such a bauble?”

“Simple. Walk with me into Ororc as shadows seeking a greater shadow. And when we find it, we will kill it.”

Brant stared at the ruby as it gleamed. “Come, Melek,” he whispered as if he were in a temple, “we must go talk with the others.”

The Challenge of Writing The Inugami (With Samples)

(Note: Please be aware the samples provided are still part of the rough draft and may be changed substantially in the final release.)

The challenge of writing The Inugami as well as its predecessor, The Shrine War, is that the story takes place in a world that has a different culture, religious view, ethics, and social customs very different than mine. And though I knew a few Japanese people, I have never had the pleasure of visiting the country.

So before even putting hand to keyboard, I spent weeks reading up on Japanese history, historical mythology, Shintoism and Buddhism, culture, and language. I lurked on Internet discussion forums and asked questions risking the wrath of forum trolls, but I learned quite a bit.

Hours later back in the apartment, Kelly stocked the pantry and small refrigerator with food when there came a knock on the door. She opened it to find an elderly woman bearing a covered plate, bowing and greeting her in flawless English.

“Welcome to our little neighborhood,” she said. “I have brought you some Daifuku.”

Kelly took the plate with both hands and bowed. “Thank you,” she responded. “Please come in?”

She stepped aside, but the woman nervously looked past her into the house. After a moment, she stepped inside and removed her shoes. “Arigato,” she said and bowed again. “Suzuki Haruka.”

Kelly bowed again, a nonstop exercise in a country where respect was highly valued. “My first name is Kelly,” she said, “and my family name is Robbins. I am honored to have you here.”

 Progress on the story is slow because I try to put myself in the shoes of a person who has lived in a different world. Add the mythological worldview and things become complicated quite quickly. 

In the first draft of The Shrine War, I mentioned the incense burning in a Shinto temple. However, according to a famous work on Japan, Shinto temples do not use incense. In a future release of The Shrine War, I have removed the reference and alluded to the prohibition in The Inugami.

Within minutes, her neighbor had returned with a fistful of sticks. “That’s incense, isn’t it?” Kelly asked.

“Yes,” Haruka said. “Remember when I said that Japanese believed in ghosts? Well, we believe in a host of odd creatures. Do you know what yōkai are?” She continued without waiting for Kelly to respond. “There are literally hundreds of mystical creatures and monsters that fill the Japanese mind. Yōkai are supernatural creatures and they have various powers and they all look different, but regardless, there is one trait they all have in common. They absolutely hate incense.”

“Is that why the temples use it?” Kelly asked.

Haruka shook her head as she pulled a lighter out of her pocket. “You will only find incense in a Buddhist temple or some of the Christian churches. There it serves as part of the worship. You will never find incense in a Shinto shrine. Not only do yōkai despise it, but the kami themselves view its use as an insult.”

Of course, in all of this, I may have made grievous errors. My fantasy tale, In the Father's Image, took place in London and contained massive errors, but before it went to print I had it checked out by people who knew the city and its subtle culture. I attempted to correct all errors and even after it went to print, I made sure that future editions were as error free as possible. In fact, as I go over old blog entries, if I see an error, I correct it immediately. I certainly have a phlegmatic personality, but when it comes to writing, I wish to master the art. I am always revising.

That will be the same with The Shrine War and The Inugami. If anybody can substantiate an error, I will change it, first because of my perfectionist drive to have an error free product, but because I do not wish to incorrectly portray the country where my story takes place.

 
So having read this far, allow me to reward you by posting one more sample when Kelly sees her house guest for the first time, an Inugami living under the crawlspace of her Tokyo apartment.

Smoke started to come off the incense, the room filling with a musky aroma. Haruka coughed and put her sleeve in front of her face. “Open the trapdoor there,” she said. “Quickly please.”

Obeying, Kelly opened the little door and Haruka carefully dropped it down into the crawlspace. “The floor is dirt and there can be no risk of fire. Now, outside at once!”

Kelly followed Haruka out the backdoor to the small yard, wanting to ask hundreds of questions, when suddenly the outside access door to the crawlspace violently burst open.

What tumbled out moved so quickly, Kelly’s mind could not take it all in, a scream of surprise frozen in her throat.

It was a dog, a big one rolling across the ground, a collar around its neck trailing a chain that disappeared into the crawlspace. Inexplicably, it bore shredded old rags that through the holes, Kelly could see filthy, matted yellow fur. A stench rolled off the creature making Kelly gag.

It was when the creature stood on its hind legs, Kelly felt the scream escaping her paralyzed lungs. Only five feet tall, it bore the shape of an emaciated human being, but with a canine face and teeth bared in fury. It lunged at the two women, but out of the corner of her eye, Kelly saw Haruka throw something at the beast, something powdery and white.

With a yowl of agony, it fell to the ground and writhing in pain, it dragged itself to a corner of the yard, its chain trailing behind it, where it huddled against a corner of the fence clawing at its rags and fur.

Kelly took in a deep breath to release her scream, but Haruka grabbed her arm, hard.

“Do not make a sound,” she hissed. “You will alert the neighbors. Now we have enough problems.”

Kelly fell to her knees, her eyes wide in shock. Her voice had fled.

Wheezing, she forced air out of lungs. “What...what is it,” she gasped.

A smile devoid of mirth came to Haruka’s face as she stared at the thing that whimpered and cowered at the end of its chain. “Something your western mind cannot grasp,” she said, her words hard and cruel. “It is an Inugami. Just as I suspected, the man who lived here actually was an onmyōji, a Taoist sorcerer dedicated to evil. That is his familiar.”

“We need to call the police,” Kelly said.

“No!” Haruka said forcefully. “They cannot help here. This is my work.”

“How...how can this be your work?” Kelly asked, wide-eyed. “How can you even know what this thing is?”

“I was a miko many years ago, a Shinto shrine maiden,” Haruka explained, “but we can discuss that later.”

Haruka approached the Inugami and dropped to a crouch. “Tell me your name,” she demanded in Japanese. “I have more blessed salt in my hand. Tell me or you will burn again.”

The Inugami had curled itself into a ball, but revealed its face and snarled. “I obey no kit…”

“Silence!” Haruka commanded. She held her fist above her head and the Inugami tried its best to cower even further into the fencing. “What is your name? Tell me.”

The Inugami wailed in its misery. “I am Kirai, the creation of Abe no Tadayuki.” Kelly followed the conversation in shock. The Inugami’s voice was clearly female.

Kelly stood and walked backwards until she felt the wall of house pressing against her back.

Progress Report on The Shrine War

Presently up to 7,235 words.

I started off with five Kitsune defending their Shinto shrine against an invading force of 10 Inugami. At this point, I have three Kitsune left taking on about six spirit dogs and one human being freaking out over what is essentially a yōkai war.

Writing action scenes is not a strength of mine, but here in its unedited form is one of the latest. An Inugami has rendered Hoso, the youngest of the Kitsune shrine maidens, unconscious in a surprise attack, stolen her clothes, and used magic to create an illusion to look like her. Sneaking into the shrine's oratory, the Inugami has been able to get close enough to Sen, the head of the shrine maidens, to attack her.

Sen shifted to her right and the katana blade slid harmlessly across her chest, creating a slit across her kimono jacket as testimony to its keen edge. She continued in a spin and thrust Hoso away before she could twist the blade and use it in a circular cut.

“Hoso!” Sen cried. “Cease!” But then Sen stopped in surprise.

Hoso’s eyes were brown. Whatever stood before her had eyes of amethyst.

“Die, fox!” the creature spat and the voice was not Hoso’s but that of an Inugami. It shifted the katana in her hand, brought it above her head, and charged.

Again, Sen moved aside in the nick of time, a ribbon fluttering to the ground from her hair to show how close she had come to being cloven in two. Spinning in place, she brought up her paws, her prayer beads entwined amongst her fingers and glowing azure.

Before the Inugami could bring her sword up for a counterstrike, Sen’s fingers wove a complex mudra, her fingers entwining in the beads. A blast of blue energy struck her enemy, flinging what appeared to be Hoso into a screen. The delicate screen shattered into splinters destroying the priceless painting it framed.

Immediately, Sen’s attacker stood and shook off the effects of the blast. The attack had removed the illusion and Sen felt an overwhelming mixture of grief and fury to see an Inugami wearing Hoso’s shrine maiden attire.

Again, Sen’s fingers twisted the prayer chain within a complex dance of her fingers and suddenly an oni, a Japanese yōkai composed of pale, blue fire, stood before her. Sen pointed at the Inugami who assumed a fighting stance.

“I forbid you to shed blood in the hoiden,” she said to the oni between gritted teeth. “Humble it and remove its reason.” With a scream from the Inugami and a roar from the oni, they charged each other.

Faydra: A Tale From the Fractured World

I can write anything I want, but I can't write everything I want. At the age of 61 where a short story can take as much as three months, my time is limited. Here is part of a story I am shelving and thought you might enjoy the opening paragraphs.

Faydra: A Tale From the Fractured World,

by Alan Loewen

ROUGH DRAFT

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I’m going to tell you how I met Faydra, but I really should start at the beginning. I’ll follow the advice the King of Hearts gave the White Rabbit: 'Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: Then stop.'

Those of us born on what we arrogantly call Earth Prime all remember where we were when the Fracture occurred a good decade ago. Those of us who survived it of course.

I sat in the kitchen of the home I had been born twenty two years previously, freshly graduated from Penn State, and waiting for the job offers to just come rolling in. I had just hung up the phone after speaking to my parents who called me with last minute house sitting instructions before they boarded their cruise ship and I had just made myself the perfect sandwich for my lunch: minced bologna, real mayonnaise, a layer of sweet bread and butter pickles, and a few leaves of lettuce. And then the lights went out literally and figuratively.

I miss that sandwich so much.

When I came to, I lay on the kitchen floor looking over at Hypatia, my Sheltie, licking her lips, her breath smelling of minced bologna, real mayonnaise...well, you get the picture.

I had no idea why I blacked out and still feeling a little queasy in the stomach, I felt no hurry in getting up. I thought that I would just lay still for awhile and then see about maybe getting to a phone, crawling if I had to, and getting an ambulance to come take a look at me. The Biglerville Fire Department only had to travel one mile to get to my house, close enough that on days when the wind didn’t blow I could easily hear the siren calling volunteer firefighters and EMTs to some fire or medical emergency.

I’m convinced the shock of passing out is why I didn’t hear the screaming right away. I lay on the floor considering it, confusing it at first for the Biglerville fire siren, but the siren never paused for breath.

Somebody somewhere was having a hard time and after a few moments I thought I better look into it because the screaming just went on and on.

Carefully, I got up on my hands and knees and when my gut stopped flip-flopping, I crawled to the dining room picture window and took a peek outside.

The human mind has some very elaborate mechanisms for protection, so I could not take in all that I saw right away.

My mind first registered my next door neighbor, Miss Pitzer standing on her lawn with a push mower beside her. Facing away from me, I could not see the reason for her pointing in the direction of her house and screaming until my mind decided to do the great reveal.

Miss Pitzer’s house wasn’t there. In it’s place, stretching as far as I could see stood a forest with trees that would have made the California Redwoods look like twigs.

Standing behind the picture window I craned my head up to see if I could see the treetops, but no go on that plan. Just one of those trees would have met the world’s demand for toothpicks for millennia.

I rubbed my eyes a couple of times, and then made the decision to stand. After a while, with the help of the window ledge, I made it to my feet and after a few moments started feeling better. Tentative steps seemed to work so I went to the back door and with Hypatia at my heels, opened the back door into madness.

Miss Pitzer ignored me as I went to stand next to her. Not knowing what to say to her, I just stared at what must have been a primal wood that would have made Paul Bunyan drool.

The sharpness of the division between her lawn and the wood looked like it had been made with a cookie cutter. Not knowing what had happened to Miss Pitzer’s house or how a wood with giant trees had taken its place, I thought a phone call to 911 would be in order.

And my cell phone would not connect.

Of course it took seven years of suffering and fighting and trying to keep one’s sanity before we ever learned what had happened. When life reached some form of stability, that’s when we discovered the huge crater eighteen miles in circumference beneath the France-Switzerland border near Geneva where the Large Hadron Collider once lay.

The eggheads think a power surge made the universe go flip flop and about twenty three parallel earths became fractured and got all messed up like a jigsaw puzzle.

Now I know you know all this, but I’m telling the story and I’ll get to Faydra eventually. Just let me tell the story my own way.

All I know now is that a forest from some parallel earth ended up as my neighbor and on some other planet in some other universe, Miss Pitzer’s house and her yappy Pekingese sits without Miss Pizer in residence.

I miss my parents.

I miss my minced bologna sandwiches.

The shame that I did not help my next door neighbor is sometimes overwhelming, but does it help if I say I had a bad case of shock? Especially after the sun set and that big spiral galaxy filled up half the night sky and the truth hit hard that we weren’t in the world that we knew anymore. I never saw Miss Pitzer ever again. I never even knew when she stopped screaming. I just hope she’s okay.

Of course, we were lucky. Biglerville found itself surrounded by three other chunks of real estate from three other parallel earths: the primal wood, New Rome (that’s what we call it) where Romans discovered the New World but never grew beyond the Iron Age, and finally, Faydra’s world that we still call Disneyland to this day. Of course, I wasn’t going to meet Faydra for another eight years, but like I said, this is my story to tell. I’ll tell it the way I want.

Anyway, after my fellow small town residents and I endured the initial shock of being plunged back to the 19th century and its lack of electricity and Internet and video games and television and all the other toys that kept us busy, the only joy we had was to discover a world where basically peaceful red pandas lived and walked like human beings.

So New Rome gave us goverment and leadership, Biglerville still had working farmlands and orchards, and once we learned the red pandas weren’t murderous, they kept us sane with their inquisitive friendship.

Unfortunately, some of the parallel Earths that bordered New Rome and Disneyland weren’t very friendly, but unlike the Iron Age Romans and the peaceful red pandas, we of Earth Prime were fortunate. We had guns.

New Rome had to deal with a bordering Earth that would have made H.P. Lovecraft giddy with joy, but the monsters there were not like their literary or cinema cousins. When you shot them, they obediently lay down and assumed room temperature.

Connecting to Disneyland was another world of humans that bore some philosophical crossbreeding between Ayn Rand and Kim Jong-un, but as they had not fought a war in their world for centuries, they could not put up to much of a fight. The pandas just stood aside and let us play target practice. Once we removed the old guard, New Rome stepped in to teach them their version of a Roman Republic and that world seems to be doing better.

It took the better part of seven years for the Fractured World to reach a form of stability, seven years of a lot of wars and a lot of death. The number of suicides from Internet deprivation alone almost wiped out an entire generation.

Ecologically, it will be hundreds of millennia before our new Fractured Earth reaches some form of natural homoeostasis, but until then, we do the best we can. So far, a decade after the Fracture, we’ve catalogued about twenty-three different versions of Earth.

So here we are, a decade after the Fracture and I’m working for Knouse Foods on a plan to expand the orchards into Disneyland when there’s a knock on the door.

And here is where I finally get around to telling you about Faydra.

Allow Me To Entertain You (Horror Thriller Sample)

I wrote this so many years ago I honestly can't remember its genesis any more. However, I canned the project when the film 28 Days Later basically copied the same scenario to start their own story. I have since come up with a completely different beginning, but i thought you might enjoy reading the original opening scene.

As this is a horror thriller, this is probably not one for the kiddies.

Chapter One
June 12, 2002
2:00 a.m.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

Tony drew the last drag on his cigarette and threw it to the ground where it sizzled in a thin puddle of rain. Crap, he thought, six hours left and four security rounds to go.

He stood at the gated entrance to Bright Futures, Incorporated, the chill from the rain penetrating the small, lighted booth where he sat doing gate duty. At two in the morning he appreciated the phrase, graveyard shift. The city streets lay empty. Tony hated being outside alone.

The fact there were two higher ranking security guards located in the large building complex behind him, didn't give him any warm feelings of safety. Three more months of night work at the gate and he'd be in the warmth sucking down coffee and watching old movies.

Well, watching television and dealing with the moody Doc Virkler. Virkler had a habit of working late and even tonight the Doc's car was still in its parking slot.

"Hey, Webby!" the intercom squawked. "You made a perimeter check yet?"

Tony cursed and hit the button. "Just leaving. I'll get back to you in fifteen minutes."

"Hey. Jones says not to get wet." In the background the other guard could be heard laughing like a moron. Tony shook a fist at the intercom and grabbed his flashlight.

The lights of a van slowly coming down the street illuminated Tony as he left the booth. He tensed as the van pulled up to the gate, but relaxed when an elderly woman rolled the driver's window down and yelled at him through the rain. The concern on her face was evident through the light drizzle.

"What?" Tony asked as he shrugged his shoulders for effect. The woman waved a road map and yelled something about a something, something Avenue.

Tony sighed and unlocked the gate. The rules were specific about going outside the perimeter, but he hated to think about an old woman riding around this part of the city at night. All sorts of maniacs ran the back streets of Harrisburg after sunset.

As Tony walked up to the van, he tried to blink the raindrops away. His vision finally cleared just in time to see the strange-looking gun the woman pointed at him. Before he could react, the gun gave a loud pop and two darts went right through his rain slicker and into his chest. Connected to the gun by thin wires, one hundred thousand volts of electricity slammed him to the ground.

The back of the van popped open and five people in camouflage jumped out. Two of them grabbed Tony as he twitched on the ground and dragged him through the gate and into the booth.

"He's gonna be okay?" asked a woman, her bright blue eyes in contrast to the black shoe polish she had streaked across her face.

Tony gurgled as if he was trying to answer for himself.

"Yeah, he's gonna be fine," answered a young man. "Judy, you and Connie tie him up. Bill, you and Heather go to that back door. We'll be with you in just a minute."

The leader ran out the gate and to the woman who was still in the driver's seat. "Mary, park the van at the curb and turn all the lights off. We'll be out in thirty minutes."

"You be careful, Charles," she said as she shifted the van in reverse. As he waved, she gave him the thumbs up sign.

In the guard's booth, Judy was trussing up the guard with his own cuffs while Connie worked a gag into his mouth. Tony's eyes looked like they were just starting to regain their ability to focus.

Charles pulled out a leaflet and slapped it on the small desk. "C'mon. We've got twenty-nine minutes."

The trio ran out into the rain. As Tony struggled with his bonds and listened to the footsteps fade in the distance, a small breeze blew the paper off the desk. It fluttered down to land in front of Tony's nose where he stared vacantly at the typewritten words.

Animal Oppressors of the World Be Warned!

We, the soldiers of the Animal Freedom League have declared Bright Futures to be an oppressor of our animal sisters and brothers. We find them guilty of using defenseless animals for unnecessary cosmetic research.

These animals have been liberated and are under professional care. Their torments will be documented and all information will be released to the media.

* * *

Charles, Judy and Connie joined the other two near a side door of the complex. There, sheltered from the rain by an overhang, they quickly huddled together in conference.

"The door's open, Charles," Heather whispered. "The secretary did it!"

"Thank God for greed and low salaries," Charles grinned. "Now listen. You remember the floor plans. Bill, you, Judy and Connie go for the monkeys. Heather and I will go for the rabbits." He smiled, relieved at how easy everything was going. "We only have twenty-seven minutes at this point, so keep moving. Stay away from the main lobby. If you see any guards, get them with the mace. Now let's roll."

Bill opened the door into the fire escape. Following him, they quickly made their way to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Charles slowly opened the corridor door and peered into the dimly lit hallway. Quietly, they made their way down the corridor where the group split at an intersection.

Charles and Heather stopped in front of a door marked Research. They opened the door into an open laboratory stocked only with equipment. They looked at each other puzzled.

Quickly, they went back into the hallway, but all the rooms were offices, meeting rooms and other laboratories empty of animals. Where the bribed secretary had assured them were helpless rabbits held slave to the vanity of American women, there was nothing but rooms filled with desks, chairs and microscopes.

They made their way back to the fire escape where they found Judy waiting for them.

"Did you find the rabbits?" Judy whispered.

"No. Did you find anything?" Charles asked.

"We didn't recognize the hallways, but we found this big metal security door. C'mon."

They followed their fellow member who led them through the maze of hallways. At the end of a short hall was a large, metal door marked Authorized Personnel Only. A small panel with a silhouette of a palm print was the only other marking.

Charles tapped on the metal door. "I would love to know what's behind this," he muttered.

Suddenly, Heather grabbed his shoulder. "Shh. Listen," she whispered intently. Down the corridor behind them, came the sounds of footsteps.

Charles motioned the rest against the wall. He slipped the mace out of his pocket and flipped the lid.

Around the corner, intently reading a sheaf of papers, an elderly man in a laboratory coat made his way toward the door. Engrossed in his reading, he didn't know about the intruders until the mace hit him in the face from only ten feet away.

With a cry, he grabbed his eyes and dropped to his knees. Charles and Bill grabbed him and dragged him down the hallway.

"Shut up! Shut up!" Charles hissed at him. The three women simply stared at the men with guilty looks. Animal oppressors weren't supposed to look like their grandfather.

The old man coughed and sputtered. Charles stared at the scientist and then stared at the handprint on the door. With a triumphant grin, he and Bob manhandled the employee to the door and forced his hand on the template. In seconds, the panel glowed and, with a hissing sound, the door gave a click.

Bill quickly opened the door and they dragged the man into the adjoining hallway. Leaving him slumped against the wall, Charles brusquely motioned the women through the door.

"Keep an eye on him," Charles ordered the women. He started opening doors. "Bull's eye," he said. Inside the room were stacks of large, empty animal cages. "We're getting closer."

Charles grabbed the employee by the lapels and glanced at the name on his security badge. "Listen, Doctor Virkler," he said to the man who was still coughing and rubbing his eyes. "If I hear you yell, you're dead."

He motioned for Bill to help him and, again, they half-dragged, half-carried the doctor into the room where they tumbled him into a cage. Charles locked the cage and motioned for Bill to close the door.

"Charles," Heather said, her face twisted in contempt. "We're pacifists. You threatened that man!"

"Now's not the time to worry about it," Charles hissed back. "We're in the right section. Let's go."

Charles and Bill began throwing open doors, the women reluctantly following behind. Though there was still no sign of rabbits or monkeys, the laboratories were obviously designed to handle animals.

Around a hallway they found another door with a large wheel located in its middle. The unmarked door appeared to be solid steel.

"Jackpot?" Bill asked, smiling at Charles.

"Only one way to find out."

A few turns of the wheel and the door opened to show seven feet of hallway and another similar door. Bill and Charles looked at each other in puzzlement.

Heather put her hand on Charles' shoulder. "Listen," she said. "It's weird to have two doors like this. This looks like an airlock. How do we know there's not something poisonous or radioactive on the other side?"

Charles gave her a patronizing look. "In a cosmetics firm?" he asked. " Anyway," he said, motioning to the bare walls. "If there was anything bad on the other side, there would be some special symbol. It's required by law. If you're nervous, go outside and close the other door. Bill and I'll open the other. We'll knock when everything is okay."

Heather looked at the other two women who shook their heads in the negative. "No, Charles. We stand together. Open the door."

Charles spun the wheel until it could turn no further. With a tug, the heavy door easily swung open on its hinges.

* * *

The pain in Doctor Jonathan Virkler's eyes had finally begun to recede and he could take deep breaths without coughing when he heard the first screams. Oh, no, surely they didn't.

He kicked at the cage door, but the lock held. Knowing what was probably in the hallway by this time, maybe he was safer inside the pen. He heard people running and screaming.

In a moment the screams stopped.

Virkler discovered the silence was worse.

Not aware he was holding his breath, he watched the shadows form underneath the door. It shook as someone jostled it. Virkler's heart began beating so loud, he was certain what was outside could hear.

Silently, he prayed, remembering there were no atheists in fox holes. Or animal cages.

His heart surged with fear when he heard the sound of the door knob slowly turning. The door slowly opened to blazing hall light and the doorway filled with the silhouettes of his children.

All sixteen stealthily entered the room and surrounded his cage. Sixteen pairs of golden feral eyes glared at him through the thin bars of the cage.

Virkler curled himself into a fetal position and his mind made him go far, far away.

* * *

Tony was still groggy from the taser when creatures from a fever dream galloped past his guard station.

Running on all fours, they were much bigger than his Great Dane. One stopped at the open door of the station and stared in at him.

Stupidly staring back at it, Tony watched in a daze as the creature snuffled at him. It ran long-fingered, heavily calloused hands over his uniform. It puzzled at the handcuffs, sniffed at the gun and batted it away.

Tony was glad when the bad dream turned its back on him and run out the door. That's when he heard the screams and the sound of breaking glass.Tony started to cry and thought sad, befuddled thoughts about a lost, elderly woman in a van.

February's Writing Prompt Challenge

This was this evening's writing prompt at the monthly gathering of writers I am privileged to attend. I had way too much fun with this one.

February 2016 Writing Prompt: Describe a part of somebody's body in detail.

In the latter years of my life as my memory fades, it is no surprise that when I remember Ambrosia Plushbottom, the only image that comes to my senescent mind is her mouth. I cannot remember the color of her eyes or her hair; I cannot recollect how tall or short she was; my age-addled brain cannot even recall the most basic shape of her face. If Ambrosia were to stand in front of me I would not remember her, but the moment she opened her mouth to speak, my memory would return in a flood.

I think it was that odd combination of mismatched lips, teeth, and tongue. When she spoke, the result was a spastic ballet that surprised you when you heard actual intelligible words. Watching Ambrosia speak was like viewing a badly dubbed foreign film, the brain stretching itself to marry contradictory visual and auditory clues as the small pink tongue waltzed around broad teeth that belonged more to equine than human biology, and moist lips that had smothered many a screaming child in matronly kisses.

The Treasure of the Llanganati Mountains: An Excerpt

Many times as a writer I've been given the sage advice to "Write what you know," but as a writer of fantasy, dark fantasy, and science fiction, I find that a tad difficult to put into actual practice. I really don't know that much about magical beasties, interstellar travel, and arcane practices, but I do have an active imagination and I've been blessed with a life rich in experiences.

A picture of the beautiful and deadly Llanganatis.

From September, 1980 until January, 1983, I had the pleasure of living in Ecuador employed by Radio HCJB in their English Language Department. For a country bumpkin from south-central Pennsylvania, Ecuador was, for all practical purposes, a journey into my own personal Middle Earth, and the experiences and tales I picked up there have entered many a tale.

One of the most interesting tales was the secret of the Llanganti mountains, an incredibly hostile stretch of Ecuador that purports to hold the buried treasure of Rumiñawi, an Incan warrior who hid mounds of gold, platinum, and jewels from the Spanish conquistadors. It is also rumored that up to the 1960's, there had been reports of giant ground sloths living in the Llanganatis, living ancestors of the Megatheriums that went extinct 12,000 years ago, until they themselves joined their ancestors in extinction, hunted down by the native people.  (By the bye, do follow the links above. They are fascinating.)

Many a treasure seeker has wandered the Llanganatis searching for the treasure and paid with their life or their sanity.

So, fascinated by the tales that I heard, I began to weave my own until responsibilities made me put the work aside. However, for your pleasure, please enjoy the following excerpt of the very rough draft that served as the work's prologue. 

Chronicles of the Old Dogs: The Treasure of the Llanganati Mountains

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PROLOGUE

The two men ran through the jungle underbrush, gasping for breath in the terror of their exertion. Ignoring the prick of thorns and the sharp-leaved vegetation that ripped at skin and clothing, they bolted through the bushes and around the trees in a mad dash for their lives.

Suddenly, by some unspoken mutual consent, they collapsed against the fallen trunk of a huge tree eaten partially away with thick moss and fungus. The air was heavy with humidity. Thin sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead gave everything a weird green tint.

"Do you hear them coming," one man gasped, almost in tears. His English was marked with a heavy German accent.

"No," the other man gasped out, "but we wouldn't hear them coming anyway. I can assure you we aren't safe yet." The second man would have been handsome except for the old scar that tracked across the entire left side of his face.

With a whimper, the German reached into his pockets and pulled out a small gold statue that he sat on the trunk of the tree.

"What are you doing?" the man with the scarred face asked.

"I'm hoping that those things chasing us will stop for this," the German said, his breath coming easier. "It's gold. It's heavy and it's weighing me down. It may give us the few seconds we need to get away."

Scarface shook his head in the negative. "That won't work, We need to give them something more attractive to make them stop."

The German looked at his companion quizzically. "What?" he asked.

Scarface did not reply, but suddenly swung his left fist in a broad uppercut directly to the German's jaw following it with a right to the solar plexus. With a barely audible groan, the German dropped to the ground, the wind completely knocked out of him.

Without another word, Scarface grabbed the statue, jumped over the log, and disappeared immediately into the thick brush.

The German lay stunned, his mind screaming at his body to get up, to run. Unable to move, he finally did the only action available to him. Ignoring what might be sharing the jungle floor with him, he attempted to force his way deeper into the forest mold under the trunk of the fallen tree.

Suddenly, two dark shapes burst through the brush and leapt over him and the tree under which he lay. The German froze in terror. Trying not to gasp for breath, trying not to scream, he lay still.

Moments later coming from some distance away, the German heard his traitorous companion begin to scream. He squeezed his body deeper under the trunk and waited until the screams abruptly stopped.

Several hours later, terror still kept him prisoner under the log, even ignoring the one snake that traveled along his side while he lay completely still. As the sun was setting, he finally began to entertain the thought that a miracle might allow him to escape the Llanganati Mountains alive.

Writing Prompt Challenge

I am a member of a writing group that meets the first Thursday every month in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania and one of the challenges at each meeting is the leader gives us a writing prompt and 15 minutes to show our creativity. Below are the three last prompts we were given.

Some writers may not enjoy the exercise, but writing is like a muscle. The more you use it, and the more you use it in different ways, the better you become.

September 2015 Writing Prompt: Write a segment completely in inner dialogue.

How do I tell her she has something green between her teeth? That is so...awful! I can't concentrate on a word she's saying.

Is that spinach? Cauliflower? I have to look away. No. That might give the impression I'm bored with what she's saying.

How do I work toothpaste into the conversation? Maybe mention toothpicks? What is she talking about anyway? All I see is that green stuff between her teeth. I have to set a good first impression, but I don't know what to do! It's the visual equivalent of being hit by a crowbar.

That reminds me. I wanted to paint the bathroom green. What shade of green is that between her teeth? Do they call that Kelly Green? Irish? What in the world is she talking about?

November 2015 Writing Prompt: Describe the word 'sparkle' to a person who is blind.

"Describe the word, sparkle? Now there, my dear, is a challenge for even the most verbally gifted. Let's see if I am up the challenge.

"Imagine champagne on the tongue, the way it bubbles and tickles. Sparkling is to sight what sparkling wine is to the taste.

"Call to mind the physical sensation of petting your cat on a cold winter day and feeling the static electricity dance over your fingers. Sparkling is to the eyes what those little tickling stings are to your skin.

"And the sound of a crackling fire? Sparkling is to the eyes what those little pops and snaps are to the ear."

She slowly twirled her white cane between her fingers, contemplating. "So," she asked, "sparkling is pleasurable?"

"Yes," he responded, "and so much sparkles in this world everybody can enjoy the miracle."

January, 2016 Writing Prompt: give voice to an inanimate object

The Japanese have a belief that after 100 years, every inanimate object on its 100th birthday becomes alive and self-aware. They even have a name for the belief: Tsukumogami.

I had my birth well over a century ago, built in the Neo-Victorian style during the Industrial Revolution of the United States and since then I have stood proud and tall on East Hill Street in Boston. Since my awakening some decades ago, I have passively watched the drama of those who dwell within my walls. I have shared their joys, their sorrows, and I have also heard their secrets.

And in my way, I speak to them in their barely-remembered dreams.

A Free Essay For You?

Well, well, well.

It appears the opening essay to my collection, Come Into My Cellar: Darker Tales From A Cerebral Vault, is completely available for free if you click on Amazon's Look Inside feature.

Bad news for me, great news for you.

Oh, well, things like this happen in the smaller universes.

Enjoy the opening essay, my dark love letter to the English language, by clicking here and then clicking on the Look Inside command and scrolling down.  You'll also get to read the opening to the first chapter of Doll Wars that I hope to complete and release before the heat death of the universe.

Go ahead. They are just words on a screen. They don't bite.

Maybe.